


Like a bullet to my heart

by Maegfen



Category: Miss Scarlet and the Duke (TV 2020)
Genre: 1x05, F/M, Pre-Relationship, a wee bit of angst, alternative ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24593410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maegfen/pseuds/Maegfen
Summary: "A feeling of fear, and panic, and protect her, comes to the fore when the masked man shifts his aim, points the gun at Eliza and laughs.William curses himself; he's been too slow, too unfocused, or maybe too focused but on the wrong things (his hand aches, and he knows it’s broken, and he knows Eliza is panicking and he can’t do anything to stop it.)"
Relationships: Eliza Scarlet/ William 'The Duke' Wellington
Comments: 15
Kudos: 175





	Like a bullet to my heart

**Author's Note:**

> I was in an angsty mood the other week and the wonderful bygone-age prompted me to write something where Eliza gets injured and William has to help her. So, I rewrote the end of 1x05 so that Eliza is shot by the mystery gunman.
> 
> This is the result - I may tweak it further, but wanted to post it now so that it's out there! It's a slightly different style to my usual thing I think, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless.

“I’m a police detective. Shoot me and you will have all of Scotland Yard hunting you day and night…”  
  
There’s a steady _thump, thump, thump_ in his chest as he faces off the gunman, the rifle pointed straight at his chest. William tries to find a solution, tries to think on his feet to find a way out, but he’s outgunned, with a broken hand and no possible escape route.

He hears the sound of running, shoes scrapping across gravel and suddenly _Eliza_ is there, William’s empty gun in her hand and he can’t shout a warning before she yells.

“You’ll also have a bullet in your chest! I may not hit you with the first shot, but I will keep pulling this trigger until one of us is dead.”

A feeling of fear, and panic, and _protect_ her, comes to the fore when the masked man shifts his aim, points the gun at Eliza and laughs.  
  
William curses himself; he's been too slow, too unfocused, or maybe too focused but on the wrong things (his hand aches, and he knows it’s broken, and he knows Eliza is _panicking_ and he can’t do anything to stop it.)

“Hey, hey,” he shouts, desperate, “just leave her out of this.”  
  
He’s pleading, he knows it, and his arms are held out in surrender, because he can’t let Eliza get hurt. As much as she infuriates him, as much as he both resents and relishes their arguments, he just wants her _safe_.

The gunman doesn’t pay him any mind; after all, it’s _Eliza_ who stands by William’s side with a gun in her hand, and _Eliza_ whose hand is shaking as her finger lingers over the trigger. _She’s even holding it in her wrong bloody hand_ , he notes; she’s bluffing and he’s sure the gunman opposite knows it.

The gunman laughs again; a short, bitter sounding bark, and William thinks it sounds familiar but he doesn’t know why, can’t place it, still can’t focus, not really, not on anything but Eliza and the gun that is pointing at her. He takes a deep breath and tries to reassess the situation.

He can’t charge the gunman - there’s no way he could outrun a bullet from a rifle. But he can’t stay put either, can’t leave Eliza out in the open.

William takes a hesitant step forward, past the hunched form of Caine, who is still breathing, the gunshot having pieced his shoulder.  
  
The gunman doesn’t say anything, but William’s movements prompt him to shake his head and tighten his grip on the rifle.   
  
“Please,” Eliza says suddenly, “just let Inspector Wellington and Mr. Caine go. I’ll lower the gun as soon as they’re out of the way,”

William frowns, because there’s no way the man holding the gun in front of them is going to fall for that.

He doesn’t.

When it happens, it’s almost like slow motion. William senses the moment the gunman decides to fire, knows instinctively that he’s going to shoot, watches as the masked man’s finger starts to pull the trigger.  
  
William moves as fast as he can, tries to get in front of Eliza, can’t think of anything but _move, move, move…_

The shot echoes in the courtyard.

* * *

William awaits the impact, closes his eyes, just for a fraction of a second. He doesn’t feel the bullet hit him, realises the gunman has _missed_ , breathes a sigh of relief, feels the heavy hammer of his heart in his chest.  
  
But, but, but…  
  
There’s someone screaming in pain and it’s. not. him.  
  
Eliza.  
  
He sees the gunman sprint away, but William no longer cares. Eliza is _hurt_. She’s been _shot_.  
  
William spins, frantic, petrified of what he’ll see before him.  
  
He feels nauseous.  
  
There is blood everywhere.  
  
She’s cradling her arm, the gun she was holding now discarded on the floor. Her dress is staining red and Eliza looks at him, just looks, tears streaming down her cheeks and fear in her eyes.  
  
“Eliza!”  
  
Somewhere in all the commotion Caine has escaped too - there’s a trail of blood leading to the road, but William can’t concern himself with that now, Caine is not his priority right now. 

Eliza clutches at her arm and William can’t tell if the bullet’s gone straight through her flesh or if it’s grazed - neither is great, but one is more survivable than the other. Panic floods him as he dashes to her side, and he frowns as she seems to put on a defiant face as he reaches out to look at her arm, despite the fact that he can see the pale path of tears rolling down her face.  
  
“William, I … I believe I’ve been shot.”  
  
And that would be the shock kicking in, he supposes, watches as Eliza suddenly seems to wobble and flush white - he’s never been shot before, but it must be worse than a broken hand and his hand stings like it’s been run over by a carriage.   
  
“Yes, Eliza, you have been shot.” There’s no point holding back any of the truth, she wouldn’t appreciate his lack of candor (he’d feel the same in her position.) “I need to have a look Eliza… there’s… there’s a lot of blood.”  
  
She winces, clearly reluctant to remove the pressure on her wound, but he can see that blood is continuing to stain her dress and her arm and her fingers and he never wants to see this much blood again.  
  
“Eliza, please, let me take care of you. We have to get you to the hospital, or somewhere safe. "He takes a deep shuddering breath, tries to compose himself. "It's not safe here.”   
  
There’s still a gunman lurking somewhere, and William wonders why he fled rather than kill the both of them there and then.  
  
“It hurts.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
He reaches for her then, his bandaged hand lifting hers away from her arm, while his other peels back the remnants of the fabric surround the wound.   
  
It’s not gone through her arm, but the bullet has carved a deep groove in her upper arm; it’s bleeding profusely and William knows there is no possible way he can treat this on his own, let alone with the threat of being shot looming over the both of them.   
  
“Eliza, it’s… it’s not looking great; the wound is quite deep.” He frowns, because they both know how bad this could get, and how quickly, but they don’t have another choice; the prison is too far from her home, and Scotland Yard, or even _his_ house, and it’s not as if either of them stock adequate first aid supplies for bloody _gunshot wounds_.  
  
He makes to rip off his sleeve, but he realises it’s covered in dirt and grime and some of his own blood. He’s not a genius, but even he knows that applying dirty fabric to an open wound would _not_ be a positive thing.   
  
“We need to get to the street,” he states then, so, _so_ aware that Eliza is flagging, her eyes heavy and she wobbles slightly as she stands in front of him. It’s the shock and the pain and the _blood_ , and woman or not he’s pretty sure most people with her injury would be unconscious by now. “I’ll be able to call for a carriage and get you some proper help, but we can’t stay here.”  
  
Eliza nods and suddenly leans against him, the contact against his shoulder the most they’ve had in years.  
  
“Can you walk?”  
  
There’s the imperceptible shake of her head and it forces William to make a choice. He swings his arm  
around Eliza’s shoulder, careful not to touch her arm.   
  
“You need to try and keep pressure on this Eliza.”  
  
Another nod. He watches as she presses harder on her wound, her fingers bloodied and William struggles to hold back his own panic at the sight.  
  
“Trust me?”  
  
“Always.” It’s barely a whisper, but it’s enough so he carefully picks her up, one arm under her legs (his hand roars with pain but he needs to ignore it; his discomfort is inconsequential compared to hers…) and one supporting her back. It’s a full bridal carry William belatedly realises, and he tries to ignore the implications - it’s a thought for another, more pleasant, less stressful day.  
  
She’s not as heavy as he’d expected and it’s relatively easy to carry her out of the blasted courtyard. There’s no sign of the gunman to William’s utmost relief.   
  
After a couple of unsteady steps he feels Eliza slump against him, and William looks down, disheartened to see that’s she’s fallen, finally, into unconsciousness. He steadies himself, shifts her limp body carefully so she’s more secure in his arms, and makes his way slowly to the street.  
  


* * *

People eye him with shock as he enters the roadside, the pavement full of people attempting to finish up their daily business before the stalls and shops close down for the evening. William glances around for a familiar face, a kind soul, _anyone_ who might be able to help them - all he needs is a bloody carriage.  
  
William finally, _finally_ spots a free carriage and heads over, and carefully crosses the street, ignores the whispering women and concerned looking men - he’s got proof he’s an officer of Scotland Yard, he doesn’t need to worry, not really, but there is a rush of panic that tickles the back of his neck regardless.  
  
If someone interrupts them now, delays Eliza’s arrival at the hospital…  
  
The cabbie looks down at him as William approaches.  
  
“My name is Detective Inspector Wellington with Scotland Yard. I need… I need to get to the hospital as quickly but as _carefully_ as possible. Is that something you can do?”  
  
The driver looks from William to the unconscious form of Eliza, clearly spotting the blood and the torn fabric of her dress and the absolute state of the pair of them.  
  
“Yes sir, not a problem sir.” A pause, another glance at Eliza. “Is… is the lady alright sir?”  
  
William doesn’t answer, _can’t_ answer because he doesn’t _know_. It’s a painful admission and he can’t, won’t, _will not_ lose her.  
  
“I am unsure,” he eventually states, “she was shot by a gunman and her wound is severe, hence the urgent trip to the hospital.”  
  
He is grateful that the cabbie has jumped down to assist him in getting Eliza into the carriage while he’s talking. Judging by how carefully the other man manoeuvres her into the seat, it is likely not the first time he has had to help an unconscious woman to another area of London, although Eliza is more than likely this stranger’s first gunshot victim.  
  
William follows Eliza into the seat, presses one hand to her wound and his bandaged one to her cheek.   
  
“Hold on,” he whispers, for he cannot think of anything else to say. “Just hold on Eliza.”

The ride to the hospital is the longest of his life, and William doesn’t take his eyes off Eliza for the entire journey. He and the cabbie help take Eliza out of the carriage again and back into William’s arms. He pays the cabbie handsomely for his trouble, thanks him profusely, before rushing through the doors of the medical facility, a bleeding, unconscious woman in his arms.  
  
  


* * *

It’s all a rush after that, with doctors and nurses dashing toward him as soon as they spot him. Eliza’s taken from his arms and taken away, but William follows after them, doesn’t let her out of his sight. She’s stitched up, bandaged, given morphine and placed in a bed for the night.

She doesn’t regain consciousness once, but the Doctor, some man called Edwards, tells William it’s to be expected: “The fairer sex aren’t used to these kind of injuries Inspector. Childbirth is said to be a significant instance of pain for women, but honestly, one thinks that they seem rather hysterical in those times, so the shock of being shot has surely overwhelmed her system. Still, Miss Scarlet may well wake once her body has overcome the initial pain.”  
  
William just nods, grunts something in response and takes a seat next to Eliza’s bed. He’s sent a message to Ivy and those who should probably be made aware of his whereabouts; Stirling will be pissed for sure, and Frank will mock him for an eternity, but it doesn’t matter. _Eliza_ matters.

Hours pass, evening turns into night, and Eliza still doesn’t wake. An old matronly woman comes in at some point to check on his hand, tuts at him when he tries to wave her away, but much like the woman lying in the bed next to him, she is persistent and he soon finds his hand properly cleaned and bandaged. It still hurts, still aches, but it’s bearable. 

At some point he drifts off, head against the back of the small wooden chair he’s been given, and his hand, somehow, _somehow_ , wrapped around Eliza’s.

He doesn’t wake until he hears his name. 

“William?” He sucks in a breath, clutches her fingers tightly, almost subconsciously. He looks up, spots Eliza peering at him, confusion in her eyes. Her voice is weak, but she’s _alive_. “You’re here?”

He smiles, just a little, sighs, _grins_.

“Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think - kudos and comments make my day!


End file.
